


In a heartbeat

by ClaireScott



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Disabled Character, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 10:12:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11289150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireScott/pseuds/ClaireScott
Summary: Life can change in a heartbeat. Without someone saying a word.





	1. In a heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language. I apologize for all the mistakes.

Life can change in a heartbeat.  
You’d always give a ton of shit on platitudes like that.  
Until the day your life changed in a heartbeat.  
It was a very early Sunday morning and you were on your way home from work, waiting at a red traffic light, wondering why in all seven hells this damn traffic light was working when no one but you was on the street. For a second you thought about crossing the street, running a red light but you decided to stay, waiting for the light turn green. You liked rules.  
The thunder of a lot of engines came nearer and you’d turned your head. A bunch of bikers approached at an incredible pace. It looked like a chase, you thought, and that’s the last thing you remember.  
Next thing you know is waking up in a hospital bed, beeping monitors all around you, all your surroundings screaming “Intensive Care Unit”. A few days down the road they told you the second biker lost control over his bike and crashed, his bike sliding directly to the spot where you’ve waited for the green light. In a heartbeat. Too fast to react.  
600 pounds of metal hit you, burying you. The engine burned the skin over the dozens of broken bones. The chasers stopped to render first aid to you and (probably) killing the member of the Calaveras Motorcycle Club who crashed with his bike.  
And now here you are, with a life completely different to the one you’ve led before. A life in a wheelchair. You’ve stayed for 4 months at St. Thomas. And every Tuesday one member of the Sons of Anarchy – who where the ones rendering first aid – came to have a look after you. First, they sent the vice president, a guy named Jax, married to a doctor working in the hospital. The week after an older guy named Bobby came, bringing chocolate candies and flowers. After this they sent Chibs and Opie with lots of magazines and ice cream, a funny fellow named Tig brought nail polish and some make up, and in the fifth week it was Juice standing in front of your bed, holding up a Nintendo and some games. In the sixth week Happy came. And he talked literally nothing. It was incredibly awkward, sitting in a wheelchair, having this scary man in your room, watching you closely. He made you babble just out of jumpiness. You told him everything, you spilled the beans, only to end this threatening silence. You took a deep breath in the minute he was gone, after three full hours of watching you.  
The week after it was Happy again, standing in front of your bed, chewing on a toothpick. The next Tuesday he visited you again. And the one after, the one after this and the next one and the next one. He came by every week, with empty hands, and listened to your nervous babbling. At his seventh visit he brought a huge paper bag with Burgers and French Fries and two bottles of beer. He took you on the roof of St. Thomas, just in the middle of the helipad.  
“Want me to get crushed by a helicopter?” you asked and he grinned.  
“No. Want ya to eat and to drink a beer. You dropped some weight in the last weeks. I don’t like it.” His voice was raspy and dark and you watched him in awe.  
“You talk to me? I can hardly believe it.” You said, shaking your head in disbelief.  
“Eat, Y/N. I’m not joking.”  
“Okay. Thanks for coming by and for the food.” You gave him a smile, which he answered with a short nod.  
“Welcome. You’re gonna eat like a good girl, I’m gonna do the talking.”  
“Deal,” you answered, taking a cheeseburger out of the paper bag.  
He watched you eating and told you a few things about himself. He was 15 years older than you, no wife or girlfriend. The center of his life were the Sons of Anarchy, the club was all he cared for – except his mother.  
You ate slowly, captured by his voice and his words.  
“I’m stuffed, Happy,” you said, after eating a fucking ton of Fries and two cheeseburgers.  
“Okay. Good girl.”  
Happy grabbed the paper bag and ate the rest, while you watched the sunset over Charming. It was silent for about half an hour and nearly dark, when he asked: “Whatcha gonna do when you’re out here?”  
You sighed deeply: “I have no idea. And I’m terribly afraid of being on my own.”  
“You’re not on your own, Y/N.” Happy stated, sounding very severe.  
“I am. Sadly. I need a new job, a new apartment and some ideas how to rock a life out of a wheelchair.”  
“There’s me. And the club. We’ll take care of this.”  
“Yeah. But I’m a terrible mechanic. And a lousy barkeeper. See?” You cleared your throat and disguised your voice, made it sound sweet and a bit dumb: “I’m so sorry, Sir, but you can order only ... uhm, let me see ... red wine or coke or 7 up. I’m not able to reach up there to the whiskey bottles. So, how does red wine with 7 up sound for you?”  
Happy shook his head: “Shut up, Y/N. We’ll work something out.”  
“Why? It’s not your problem, is it?”  
He shrugged and made a face: “I like you. You’re funny. You’re making me laugh every time I see you.”  
“You? Laughing? You’ve never laughed as long as you’re with me. Not once.”  
“I laugh on the inside, ya know? So, what do you want for dinner tomorrow?”  
“Tomorrow?” You asked, frowning.  
“Yeah. What about fried noodles?”  
“Sounds good. But tomorrow isn’t Tuesday, Hap.”  
“I don’t care. You need to gain weight. And we need a plan.”  
“A plan?”  
“Yeah. How to integrate you in my life.”  
“In your life?” You repeated, sounding like a goddamn parrot.  
“Yeah. I want you.”  
The silence after this was all consuming, so you turned your wheelchair around and headed for the elevator. He wanted you. And you had no idea what to do with this information.  
“So,” you asked in the moment the elevator reached the rooftop. “This was a kind of a romantic dinner in the sunset? Your idea of confessing a crush on a woman?”  
“Yeah. Didn’t work out, huh?” He said, shrugging.  
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”  
“I’m gonna bring fried noodles tomorrow,” he said. “Want a dessert too?”  
“You’re really straight forward, aren’t you?”  
“Yeah. I’m determined. And I always get what I want.” He said, taking your hand in his, petting over the skin.  
“Happy ...”  
“I’m here. I’m here, okay?”  
You nodded, felt your eyes filling with tears.


	2. The charmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving up is no option, not for him.

During the days after the nearly romantic rooftop dinner you give up.   
“I’m moving back to my parents as I’m not able to find a new job and a new apartment in Charming,” you say shrugging and making a face.  
“Where do they live?” Happy asks, leaning forward and watching you as closely as ever.   
“Leavenworth, Kansas.”   
“No way.”  
“I have to, Happy. I can’t go back to my old apartment. It’s on the fourth floor, no lift, no accessible housing. Every accessible housing apartment I’ve found at the agencies or at the newspaper is way too expensive – given the fact that I don’t have a job anymore.”  
“I’ll figure something out. Give me 12 hours. Tomorrow morning you’ll have a job and an apartment.”   
“Ah-ha-ha,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Sure thing.”   
“I’m very convincing.” Happy states, not batting an eye.   
“Yeah. The tales of your outstanding charm hurry ahead. You enjoy an excellent reputation as a real estate agent charmer, don’t you?”   
“Yes.”   
“Hap,” you sigh, shaking your head, “that’s very nice, but ... I’m going back to Kansas to figure out what to do with my life while being thoroughly pampered by my mom.”   
“You’re gonna stay here. With me and the club. Won’t let you go, Y/N.”  
“That’s totally crackbrained.”  
“Yeah, it is.” Happy gives you a short nod and stands up, “Have to leave. Got some work to do.”   
“What kind of work, huh? Finding me an apartment?”  
“Right.”  
“But why?”  
“Because I can’t let you go to fucking Kansas.” Happy states, sounding somehow impatient.  
“Why not?”  
He comes nearer, bending over, placing his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair. Nose to nose. You smell his aftershave and a hint of raspberry as you shared some raspberry pie with him. His stare is deadly and you have to gulp. That’s the side of him that makes you babbling like a nervous wreck.   
“I like being with you. You calm me.” He rasps and his lips touching yours, just for a second.   
“I see,” you whisper. “You look at me like a fucking serial killer, stating that I’d calm you and you smell like raspberries. You are a very confusing man, Hap. Do serial killers smell like raspberries?”  
Uh, that fucking babbling starts again and you wish you could stop yourself.   
“Sometimes,” he answers, a short grin flickering over his face.   
The kiss following his usual taciturn answer is very soft and sweet, lips on lips, nearly as innocent as a newborn baby.   
“Ya don’t need to be pampered. Ya need to be fucked thoroughly.”  
“Fucked?” You whisper, shaking your head a bit. “Happy ...”  
“Loved. Better?” He says, withdrawing a bit to watch you closely.  
“I’ve got one-fucking-hundred problems right now and being loved or fucked is the very last of them.”  
“Okay. So, I’m gonna solve one-fucking-hundred problems for ya and you’re gonna give me a chance.”  
“I don’t know, Hap. Maybe I ... I’m not able ...”  
“You told me you’re able to feel a bit. The rest ... leave it to me. Try to trust me. I promise I’ll make it good for ya. Everything, everyday.”  
“Uh, Happy’s delivering a speech – where’s the calendar and my red marker to ...”   
“Shut up, babe.” He gives you a short grin and withdraws completely. “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll get you outta here. For a house viewing.”  
Another short kiss on your lips and he’s gone. Leaving you speechless, not knowing what to feel. He’s scary. But he can be so sweet. And he cares, more than any other. But who is Happy Lowman? You need to know more if he wants to be a part of your life.


	3. Moving

Admitting that you’ve spent the last 12 hours with thinking about being fucked-or-loved-or-both by Happy is embarrassing, but also the truth.  
Sex was okay, back then, before the life-changing heartbeat. Not bad, not good. Just okay. You didn’t waste a thought on finding a wheelchair-compatible boyfriend/husband/lover/whatever. You have had other problems. Until the second Happy mentioned you needed to be fucked. So, is he right? Do you need a thorough fucking?  
You stare at the wall, your fingers fumbling with the straps of a sport bag.  
“God, yes,” you whisper. “I need this. But ... I can’t, can I?”  
You see yourself lying limp on a bed, staring at the ceiling, you hear a man moaning, working for his pleasure – and you feel nothing, like you weren’t there. Like watching porn. You are a breathing fuck doll, miserable and boring. He can not want this, never ever. He’s crazy. What kind of freak you have to be to chose a partner you have to treat like ...  
“Something very precious and fragile,” a voice behind you says and you noticed you’ve been talking to yourself.  
Freak that you are.  
You look over your shoulder and make a face: “A crabby zombie without legs, winning a fucking gold medal for 100-metres-bad-mood. That’s the picture I had in mind, Sheriff Unser.”  
“Wayne, if you don’t mind. The club asked me to give you a lift. They’re busy with your apartment.”  
“I’m good with Wayne.” You give him a sad smile and continue: “I’m waiting for my brother. He’s going to pick me up and drive me home to Leavenworth.”  
“Don’t think so, Y/N. Got your bags packed?” He asks and grabs a suitcase: “I’m loading up the truck. It would be nice if you call your brother and tell him that his cabdriver qualities are not needed.”  
You roll your eyes, but you do what you’re told. This isn’t Wayne’s idea, so you’ll have to talk to Happy, the father of this totally crazy plan. You’re gonna talk to him right after inspecting the apartment. You can go home to Kansas whenever you want. In two hours, maybe, or next week.  
  
Half an hour later Wayne parks the truck in front of a small house in a bourgeois neighborhood.  
“Here. On the left,” Wayne says, just as you didn’t notice the moving van in the driveway and your very own fucking couch standing on the lawn.  
“I can’t move in here. I can’t mow the lawn,” you say, shaking your head.  
God, please, shut up, you think, biting on your lower lip. As if the damn lawn would be your biggest problem.  
“Guess Happy will be on garden duty,” Wayne grins, patting your thigh.  
Which you wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t seen it. Oh, fuck it.  
“He’s not the lawn-mowing-type of a guy,” you answer darkly, but your mood lifts up as you see him coming out of the front door.  
“Baby,” he says, opening your seatbelt and lifting you up like nothing.  
“Oh, uhm, thank you, Wayne!” You call over Happy’s shoulder and he waves at you, giving you a smile.  
Happy carries you over the driveway, giving a short nod to the right: “Garden.”  
“I’m able to see that, Hap,” you answer and he steps over the threshold.  
“Hallway. Kitchen and pantry on the right, bathroom and laundry on the left. All accessible with a wheelchair. Extra wide doors. Living room, home office and bedroom are on the backside.”  
He steps into the bedroom where a king size bed you’ve never seen before dominates the room.  
“Your bed?” You ask and he places you carefully on the edge.  
“No. Yours, baby. This is 38 Magnolia Drive, I live in No. 81.”  
“You don’t live here?” You ask feeling surprised.  
“Course not. Forcing you to live with a stranger is a no go, even for me.”  
“How much’s the monthly rental fee?”  
“200 bucks.” Happy says, shrugging.  
“You’re kidding. 200 bucks for a house? A whole house with a garden in this neighborhood? Never ever, Happy. I’m not that stupid. Where’s the catch in it?” You ask, folding your arms.  
“No catch. The house is property of the club and already paid, so ... You’re gonna work home office for CaraCara.”  
“What the fuck is CaraCara?”  
“Porn production. One of our business dealings.” Happy states, folding his arms too.  
“Oh, I see ... I pay only 200 bucks for this house and for this I have to star in some creepy wheelchair porn? Did I get that right? Fuck you, Lowman, you can keep the house for yourself, asshole! I’m going back to Kansas!”  
You wish you could just storm out of the room, but ... shit, you can’t. Not even drive out. No wheelchair. You’re trapped, goddammit! You hate this so much, the helplessness, the slowness, the feeling of being dependent on someone. On Happy in this very moment, to be exact, on the man who wants to make you a porn star. Your eyes fill with tears and you scream your frustration towards the ceiling: “Oh, fuck you! FUCK YOU! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”  
“What? No!” Happy barks. “Are you crackbrained, woman? Who said you should do porn movies, huh?”  
“You did!” You scream, and the tears start to stream over your cheeks.  
“I didn’t say you should do porn movies, crazy chick,” he says calmly after about ten seconds of silence in which he listened to your miserable sobbing. “I said you’re gonna work home office for CaraCara. Accountants’ department. That’s all.”  
“What?”  
He sits down next to you, taking your hand in his.  
“Stop crying, baby. Crazy chick. You’re gonna work some office stuff for CaraCara. You won’t even see one single porn star, neither dressed nor naked.”  
“I don’t mind porn stars.”  
“Then we’re good?”  
“I don’t know ...,” you whisper. “I just don’t know.”  
“Do you like the house?” Happy asks and you nod: “Yes, it’s cool. Beautiful.”  
“Okay. So, welcome home, baby.” He gives you a small smile and kisses your temple.  
And you? Start crying again.


End file.
